From Tomahna: Near midnight
by Cactus Wren
Summary: A happier counter to the From K'veer pieces: Atrus the loving father, addressing his daughter. Winner of the MYSTcommunity Myst Writing Challenge.


**From Tomahna: Near midnight**

"_It's obvious how much he adores her... If there is any hope in this for all of us, it will be through her." – from Catherine's personal journal_

I'm the only one awake. It's warm in our bedroom, but the air outdoors is cold enough to put frost in my beard. The moon is full, a high winter moon silvering the hills and turning the harshness of cholla to something more resembling a soft fur. A nighthawk bobs across the sky, in merry pursuit of moths.

Lazily I undress and wash, preparing for bed. I'm in drawers and little else, reaching for my bedshirt, when I hear you make a small sound.

As quietly as I can, I pad barefoot across the room and look down at you. You're stirring restlessly. "Ssh," I whisper, to no avail. You make a little bleating sound, and then another.

With infinite care I pick you up, cradling your small body against my bare chest. You turn towards it hungrily. "No, nothing there for you," I whisper. "It's night – you should be quiet and sleep. Your mother is tired."

I give you my finger to suck. You accept it eagerly, then turn away, dissatisfied. I look down at you in wonder: as tiny as you are – it's not three months since you slid, impossibly perfect and impossibly small, into my waiting hands – you have such self-knowledge, such awareness of what you want and don't want. Yesterday I could have sworn I saw your mind working out a puzzle: you wanted something in your mouth to suck, and way over _there_ was this thing, somehow connected to you (it was your hand, but you don't know that yet). How to get _that thing_ to your mouth so you could suck on it?

But now you make another sound, louder, fretful: you want something more nourishing than your fist or my fingertip. Murmuring to you, I carry you over to the bed, where your mother lies curled. I lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Mm?" she says, only half waking.

"Sorry to wake you," I whisper, tucking you into the curve of her body. "I'd do this myself if I could."

She chuckles sleepily. "The one task you can't share. Thank you for bringing her." Eyes still closed, she opens her bedgown and draws you to her.

I sit and watch, and find myself thinking of your brothers. As dear as they were to me, somehow I never felt this closeness to them. Perhaps it was the circumstances of their births. Your great-grandmother delivered them, and she still was encumbered with the ideas she'd learned as a girl: that the body was something to be ashamed of, that it wasn't proper or seemly for a man to see a woman when she gave birth, even to their children. And I was so young, I still felt myself under her authority – I thought she must surely know what was best. So both times I withdrew and walked endlessly around the beaches of Myst Island, until I heard the sound of a baby's cry.

It was different when you were born. I remember Marrim behind Catherine, embracing and supporting her. I remember kneeling beside the midwife – I recall thinking distantly but very clearly, _It's fitting to kneel now, because this is a truer and completer worship than I've ever known._ And then I received you, a whole and self-existing life, into my hands.

Satisfied, you've nestled into your mother's warmth and settled back into sleep. Not really awake herself, she caresses your soft black hair. One of your hands emerges, waving aimlessly. I intercept it with my thumb – your grasp is tiny and so fierce. I had thought I'd washed all the ink off, but a smudge transfers itself to your fingers.

Some foolish, superstitious portion of my mind wants to find that very significant – that already, not yet three months old, you have ink on your fingers.

I disengage my hand from yours and lie down, facing your mother and mirroring her posture – knee to knee, brow to brow, our bodies forming a protective human cradle for you. How I wish we could shield you in this way forever. Her hand and mine meet and clasp, across your tiny warmth. I can feel the small movements of your breathing. I feel your mother's kiss.

And I turn my face so the pillow absorbs my unexpected tears, because I'm almost afraid to believe this much happiness can exist.


End file.
